Chapter 102.2

Chapter 102.2

André felt a chill in his chest.

Wherever Miran was, there was always some sound—music playing softly, the TV murmuring, her humming under her breath. But now, the only thing he could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

His nerves were on edge. He set the bouquet down on the console table and took out his phone. Holding down speed dial number one, he rubbed his throbbing temple.

From the living room came the sound of a ringtone. André’s head snapped up. Miran’s phone was sitting on the coffee table. When he hung up, the silence returned.

He stared between the phone and the apartment key lying beside it, then strode quickly down the hallway. Reaching the master bedroom, he threw the door open.

The bed was perfectly made, as if the maid had just straightened it. A strange sense of foreboding gripped him. He yanked the bathroom door wide open. Miran’s toothbrush and toiletries were still in place.

Only then did he exhale the breath he’d been holding and step toward the sink to wash his hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his lips had gone pale. His reflection in the mirror looked ghostly. He dropped his gaze, unable to look himself in the eye, then grabbed his jacket and stepped out of the bathroom.

The moment he opened the dressing room door, the jacket slipped from his hand. The side he’d given to Miran was completely empty. The large suitcase he had moved there himself was gone.

[…No way.]

André muttered under his breath.

Something glinted near the island cabinet. Narrowing his eyes, he stepped closer. It was the necklace and the cufflinks.

[Hoo…]

Resting a hand on the counter, he closed his eyes and opened them again.

He had felt uneasy all day, afraid she might do something like this. With her impulsive, straightforward nature, he’d worried she might stubbornly insist on leaving.

And now the worst had happened.

She’d left without a word.

He couldn’t believe it.

For the first time in his life, he had come prepared to bow his head and apologize—only to find the person gone. She had walked out before even hearing him, tossing aside everything he’d given her as if none of it meant a thing.

How could she.

He couldn’t tell if what he felt was anger or emptiness—only that it burned somewhere deep and cold.

Kang Miran. What the hell were you thinking.

André stared up at the ceiling of the dressing room, steadying his roughened breath. Then he straightened his back, set his jaw, and lifted his chin.

He already knew where she’d be. Probably with that friend, Hyeonjeong, or staying at one of the homes of the classmates she used to hang around with at the language school. And she’d no doubt try to find out if she could move back into that damned dormitory.

But André had no intention of letting her disappear from his sight. If she found it uncomfortable to live with him for the next three months, then she could stay here, and he would move back to the Lafayette Residence.

He rolled his neck from side to side, loosening the stiffness in his muscles.

The truth was, he wanted to go after her right now. Drag her back if he had to, throw her over his shoulder like some savage, and keep her by his side—by any means necessary, until she could never leave again.

But he forced the feverish thoughts back down, summoning every ounce of restraint he had left. Miran needed time to calm down too.

Just one day. No more than that.

Tomorrow afternoon, when her language classes ended, he would go and get her himself.

His fingers trembled as he picked up the necklace and cufflinks, then clenched them tightly in his fist.

D@!mn it.

Was this what withdrawal felt like?

Grinding down the curse in his throat, André took a long, sharp breath. Then he opened the glass cover of the island cabinet and set the necklace and cufflinks back into their empty slots.

[You stay where I can reach you, Kang Miran.]

Muttering under his breath, André stepped out into the living room again. He glared at the bouquet of yellow freesias on the console, then fixed his troubled gaze on the shopping bag with the chocolates and wine.

He pulled out a bottle, uncorked it, and leaned against the sink. Then, without even bothering with a glass, he drank straight from the bottle. The bitter alcohol burned down his empty stomach, leaving a trail of heat behind.

—

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

She pressed the doorbell several times, but no one came to the door.

“Don’t tell me she went to work in that condition again.”

Miran let out a sigh. That was exactly the kind of thing Juran would do.

She trudged back down to the first floor and lifted the lid of the mailbox beside the entrance. Inside, taped to the underside, was the spare key. She peeled it off.

When she opened the front door, the familiar picture frames, the wall clock, and the dried bouquet hanging beneath it greeted her. Nothing had changed since the morning she’d left three months ago.